<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>two steps back by perlaret</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23058706">two steps back</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/perlaret/pseuds/perlaret'>perlaret</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ballroom Dancing, Exes, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Pining</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 12:02:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,633</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23058706</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/perlaret/pseuds/perlaret</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ben Solo attends a charity ball. He's not feeling especially charitable. </p><p>Neither is Poe.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Poe Dameron/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>The Kylo|Ben x Poe Fanworks Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>two steps back</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Araine/gifts">Araine</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s being slowly strangled.</p><p>Ben Solo isn’t sure what’s at greater fault for the crime: the atmosphere of the room around him, or the spavat looped securely around his neck.</p><p>Lights glimmer overhead, a sparkling counterpoint to the tinkling chime of crystal and the rush of conversation, individual words just indistinguishable beneath the jaunty live band. Guests mill by in flocks like multicolored birds in an apiary, resplendent in their fashionable gowns and their well-tailored best, champagne flutes and in hand as they flit from acquaintance to acquaintance. Ben sinks further against the wall, arms crossed, and feels the noose tighten. As it turns out, he can blame both.</p><p>He resists the urge to check the chronometer at his wrist again. The music sounds a tempo that the passing minutes don’t keep pace with. </p><p>Somewhere in the ebb and flow of beings, his mother is making her mark on the galaxy, as she always does. Leia Organa is a powerhouse of political machinations, and charity balls like this one are the bread and butter of the adolescent New Republic. Behind closed doors, Ben has witnessed her frustrations and cutting comments about the new-built stratospheres that undermine the government’s claims to equality more times than he can count. He, more than the rest of her staff, got to see the truth, her mind laid bare. But here, in the midst of it, there’s no evidence of his mother’s skepticism. She is the ideal senator, representing the Alderaanian sector well, floating amongst the guests with all the elegance of the royal title she’d abdicated.</p><p>The hypocrisy is its own death sentence. It sticks in his jaw and sours on his tongue. It kills any lingering desire Ben has to wrangle his own bad mood into submission and do his job. Then again, glad-handing has never been his particular strength, and Leia ought to know it by now.</p><p>That decided, Ben abandons his post from the obscurity of a column’s shadow, risking visibility for the chance at a direct cut for the exit. </p><p>It’s the story of his life that the moment of impulse hits at exactly the wrong time. Ben crosses the room and comes face to face with one person he never thought to expect here, of all places.</p><p>“Poe,” he says automatically, stopping short.</p><p>The intervening years have treated Poe Dameron kindly. His hair is still a shade too messy to suggest he’s up to any good, and the sharp lines of the formal dress New Republic uniform are at odds with the casual way he holds himself. The only hint that Poe is not entirely at ease is the narrow line furrowed between his dark eyebrows. It deepens when he sees Ben, recognition and surprise skipping rapidly across his expression. </p><p>His gaze sweeps over Ben’s frame. Ben stiffens defensively, curling his hands into fists as if that might ward off the judgment Poe is surely passing in his mind.</p><p>“Uh- hey, Ben,” he responds. He’s got a cheerfully colored mixed drink balanced in one hand, and his knuckles pale as he grips it harder. Ben can imagine what he’s thinking – the way Poe is undoubtedly visualizing the way it would feel to throw the entire glass in Ben’s face just to see it drip down and stain his insufferably pristine outfit purple. Somehow, he refrains.</p><p>“You look good,” Poe continues. There’s a catch to his voice, like he grudges the admission, or else doubts it entirely. </p><p>Ben swallows thickly. “Blue’s not really your color.”</p><p>He blinks, then shrugs. “I’ll drink to that,” Poe says. Then with a mocking little shrug, does just that, throat bobbing as he tilts the glass up and imbibes. Ben has to remind himself to not grind his teeth. </p><p>“You weren’t on the guest list,” Ben accuses. He knows full well, because he reviewed it himself in preparation for his mother’s appearance. Ben has always had a mind for research, connecting disparate dots and tying together loose threads, so it often falls to him to compile a dossier on any new or unexpected faces who join the playing field.</p><p>He would have noticed if Poe’s name had been there. He would have found somewhere else entirely to be tonight if it had been there. It wasn’t. And yet, here Poe is anyway, the corner of his mouth quirking with wry condescension.</p><p>“Last minute addition,” Poe clarifies. His chin tilts upwards, a tiny gesture, and it’s been ages but Ben still recognizes it immediately: he’s proud of whatever is about to come out of his mouth next. “I won the NRDF Charity Race today, actually.” Then, like a probe droid suddenly losing its gravity-repellers, he ducks his head again, nose wrinkling. “But honestly I would have tried less if I’d known they were going to chuck me in here afterward.”</p><p>So that’s why he hadn’t known. Envy constricts Ben’s throat. He’d chosen to forego the race itself, spending its duration on other tedious administrative duties rather than spend the day longing for more things he wants but can’t have. </p><p>The irony doesn’t escape him. </p><p>“Congratulations,” Ben bites out. </p><p>No sooner does he get the syllables out than Poe laughs. The sound rings across Ben’s nerves like a struck bell. “Wow, okay buddy,” he says, equal parts annoyed and amused. “You want to try that again? Except convincing this time.”</p><p>“I need to go,” Ben deflects, stepping sideways. He jostles a woman wreathed in feathers and ignores her affronted ‘Excuse me!’, far more preoccupied with finding a detour around Poe and onward to the exit.</p><p>Poe cuts off his escape with nothing but a hand to Ben’s forearm. The singular touch sends a shock through him that simultaneously roots his feet to the floor and kicks his heart into overdrive.</p><p>“Come on,” Poe says, voice softer now, though not without a clear touch of legitimate grievance. “It’s been years, Ben.”</p><p>Ben is frozen under his touch. It’s like Poe has somehow absorbed all of the blistering hot anger that’s always smoldering under Ben’s skin and drawn it into himself, manifesting in the conspicuous warmth of the palm against his sleeve. One touch, and it brings a thousand memories with it. </p><p>“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Ben manages.</p><p>A winner’s grin cracks golden across Poe’s stupid, smug face. “Say you’ll dance with me.”</p><p>“You hate dancing,” Ben objects, and prays to the Force that it won’t come off like he’s grasping at threads.</p><p>Poe shrugs expansively and hooks his fingers around Ben’s wrist, just beneath the cuff where it’s bare skin, and his will crumbles a little more. “Three years, and I can’t grow as a person?” Ben scoffs, and Poe gives that one up. “Okay, fine. But you know what they say about misery and company. Come on.”</p><p>Resistance is futile. Ben follows Poe through the glittering crowd, all too conscious of the regret that would soon be chasing after.</p><p>They settle into stance and rhythm with a natural ease, one that should have lost its place between them by now. Ben knows the steps and falls into the lead without thought; dancing is easy after a youth spent practicing sparring forms. Poe purses his lips ruefully, glancing down at their feet, but doesn’t protest. He fits himself into Ben’s arms like there’s nothing unusual about it at all.</p><p>Time was, there wouldn’t have been. Ben counts the beat and then steps into it, letting the music rush him down this foolhardy path. There’s a stilted moment before Poe finds his own footing, but he recovers quickly enough, letting Ben steer him. Strangely, Ben thinks he can feel the muscles in Poe’s back relax when they finally find their pace. </p><p>“So,” Ben says, turning them counterclockwise, and then back into the reverse. “You still haven’t learned to dance.”</p><p>“I’m dancing right now,” Poe says, pulling his gaze back from the peek he’d been sneaking downwards. </p><p>“You’re resting on my laurels,” Ben says, and it may be a little petty, but he seizes the opportunity to maneuver them into a series of steps that’s tricky even for the most experienced dancers. Poe has to grip his arm and grit his teeth in concentration to keep up, his weight shifting forward into Ben in a way that makes his chest ache for reasons that have nothing to do with physical exertion. </p><p>“You’re an ass,” Poe counters, when Ben twists them back into the standard form. He’s smirking though, like he’s won out again, if only because he didn’t trip and land on his face. “Not all of us were raised by royalty, you know.”</p><p>If there’s anything Ben hates, it’s yet another reminder of his looming family tree. It’s bad enough he’s here, spinning his wheels in a capacity he can’t help but resent sometimes, even when he likes the work itself. </p><p>“I don’t want to talk about that,” Ben snaps. “Can we just finish the dance?”</p><p>Some of that good humor fades, guardedness taking its place. Ben is foolish enough to miss it as soon as it goes. “Sure,” Poe says. “Besides, I was hoping we could talk about something else, actually.”</p><p>“There’s nothing for us to talk about.”</p><p>“I’m gonna have to disagree with you there,” Poe says, that little line reappearing between his eyebrows. Ben hadn’t even noticed it had vanished until now. “It might be nice to finally talk about why you ended things, you know.”</p><p>Ben’s throat constricts. “There’s nothing to say.”</p><p>Poe scoffs. His fingers dig in where his hand rests against Ben’s shoulder. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”</p><p>He doesn’t dignify that with a response. The problem is, there is plenty to say actually, but all of it rings hollow. There’s no easy way to explain how badly things nearly fell apart at Luke’s temple, how out of control he’d nearly spun, how his only saving grace had been the impulsive decision to head straight for his ship and back home without a second look back toward the Temple, toward Yavin IV as a whole. </p><p>He doesn’t want to imagine the judgment that would cross Poe’s face when he realized all of Ben’s explanations hinged on how pathetic he was. How afraid.</p><p>The silence stretches, and there, the disappointment.</p><p>“Seriously? Nothing?” Poe presses, frowning.</p><p>Ben averts his eyes, focusing on the now-rote movement of his feet. He’s got half a mind to end things now, but the gossip will be vicious if he makes a scene, and it won’t be him it reflects badly on. He focuses his anger on the injustice of that instead. It’s the easier target.</p><p>“Fine,” Poe continues, and Ben can practically taste the bitterness of the word where it’s been cast between them. “This was a terrible idea.”</p><p>Ben’s mind supplies all the ways that’s true, going all the way back to when they were younger and dumber and caught each other’s eye across the Yavin marketplace. He swallows back the sting.“I could have told you that.”</p><p>“Well, you didn’t.” </p><p>“Because when I saw you, I thought–“ He cuts himself short, which is what catches Ben’s attention and pulls his gaze back to Poe with magnetic force. Poe Dameron has never been one to mince words, and yet here he is, in Ben’s arms after three years, biting back his lip and whatever else he meant to say. </p><p>“Thought what?” Ben says cautiously.</p><p>“It’s nothing.”</p><p>“Poe.”</p><p>“No,” Poe says. </p><p>“It’s clearly not nothing, if you dragged me out onto this Force-forsaken dancefloor after three years,” Ben retorts. He can hear the aggravation in his own voice, knows it must carry, and yet he’s too frustrated to modulate it.</p><p>Poe laughs like he’s winded. “Kriff. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m done being a sucker. I just want to get out of here, alright?”</p><p>“What’s with you and always running away?” Ben says, knowing it’s snide but unable to help himself. </p><p>“Me?” Poe gives him an incredulous look.  “What’s with you and always sticking around places that make you miserable until you snap?”</p><p>“Good question,” Ben snaps, and stops the dance midstep. He drops his hands and it puts the comforting distance of an arm’s length and a million bitter feelings back between them. “Let me stop doing that.”</p><p>He hears Poe call his name out as he strides away and ignores it, striding away and causing other dancing couples to swerve out of his path.</p><p>It’s infuriating–Ben knows better than to expect anything different. Neither of them have ever been any good at mediating fraught situations, so it’s no surprise that that holds true now. There’s too much pain and too many skeletons in the closet. Poe shouldn’t have pushed the issue to start with, but then, Ben knows he should have put a stop to it sooner.</p><p>Then again, the only way Ben had been able to put a stop to things the first time is by avoiding Poe entirely. That fact doesn’t bode well for his chances.</p><p>Ben makes it out of the ballroom and down the twisting halls of the complex before his worst fears are realized. </p><p>“Damn it, Ben! Slow down!”</p><p>Ben throws a glance backwards against his own judgment. Poe is determinedly keeping up, face flushed with exertion and anger, hot emotion at odds with the crisp lines of his dress uniform. </p><p>“We’re not doing this,” Ben snaps, not sure when the positions had reversed. Hadn’t Poe just been saying the same thing?</p><p>“Like hell. We’re not done.”</p><p>“Aren’t we? I thought we reached that conclusion a while ago.” It’s a slight smudging of the facts. Ben remembers comm messages received and left unreturned, the change in the tone of Poe’s recorded voice when he’d realized Ben wasn’t calling back. </p><p>“Ben–“</p><p>Poe seizes him by the arm, halting Ben’s momentum. Ben turns, trying to shake him off.</p><p>“Don’t,” Ben snaps.</p><p>“Shut up,” Poe says, and then shuts him up himself. He reaches up, grabbing Ben by the ears, and pulls him forward into a searing kiss.  </p><p>If dancing had summoned forth all of the reasons Ben had missed Poe, kissing him takes the list and sets it on fire, burning its impression into Ben’s mind, branding everywhere they touch. Poe’s lips are warm and soft, and when Ben sighs into the feeling of it, he takes the chance to deepen the kiss and curl his fingers around Ben’s spavat, cutting off any lingering thought of escape. </p><p>“Why?” Ben breathes when they part. Somehow, his own hands have found a home on Poe’s hips, like they’d never left.</p><p>“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Poe gripes. “I can try doing it in your fancy calligraphy writing if you need me to, but I promise that you won’t like the result.”</p><p>“No,” he says, frowning at the idea, the fleeting imagery of the damage Poe could do on his dusty collection of tools making him wince, before he pushes the distraction aside. “But–“</p><p>Poe interrupts with a groan. “You know I hate talking,” he complains. “But I’m sick of this feeling, so maybe we should.”</p><p>Ben closes his mouth, swallowing back his intended protest. It hits him suddenly. He wants this. He’d forgotten, amidst everything else going on, but even when it had been drowned out by the force of Ben’s own resentments and frustrations and personal tragedies, he’d always wanted Poe. And now, it’s readily apparent that it’s been no one’s fault but his own that he hasn’t had him.</p><p>“Fine,” Ben says, giving into it. “Fine, we can talk.”</p><p>“Finally,” Poe says, relief warming into another grin. And then it turns out he doesn’t actually want to talk just yet, because he winds his hand back around Ben’s spavat and pulls him down into another kiss.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>